


Ghost Naps

by MelodySyper



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: AO3's fic upload method gives me a headache too Mr. Graves, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comeback Fic, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Newt Scamander is a Mother Hen, Original Percival Graves is Bad at Feelings, RUSTY AF writer, Sickfic, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 11:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9233288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodySyper/pseuds/MelodySyper
Summary: Fill for the Fantastic Beasts Kink MemeGraves has a migraine (not that anyone needs to know about it). He can handle himself just fine, thank you very much.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time in four years that I've posted anything for any fandom. And the first time ever posting for the Harry Potter universe because I've always had this giant fear of writing something and getting thrown out of the fandom (lolbye).
> 
> +Written for this Prompt:
> 
> "So I get really bad migraines pretty regularly, I have one right now and it's the absolute worst. Not just headaches, but like eyes can't focus, may throw up, have blacked out before migraines.
> 
> So anyway, I'd love to see Graves get chronic migraines. And he deals with them, doesn't want anyone to see any weakness. But one day, somehow Newt finds him trying to keep from passing out, in a lot of pain, and takes care of him. I'd love it if it was pre relationship and brings them together. :)
> 
> Just some good old h/c. Migraines are the worst, y'all."
> 
> +Lastly, I've never personally experienced the horrors of migraines. So I put in a lot of research and if anything is inaccurate I'm terribly sorry. I tried my best.

If the first step to fixing a problem was admitting you have one then Percival Graves is a workaholic. There, he said it. Happy, now?  
  
After his rescue from the coat closet Grindelwald had locked him in and finally being cleared to return to MACUSA, Percival threw himself back into his work, nearly doubling the hours he had spent in the Woolworth building previous to his identity being stolen. It was only temporary, he told himself daily, only until the terrorist threat level is lower.  
  
Percival wouldn’t admit that he preferred work over being in his apartment because he did not like to be alone with the memories of Grindelwald’s voice echoing in his ears. He wouldn’t admit that he preferred over-working to over-drinking because the desired effects—losing one’s ability to think back— were not associated with the latter’s undesired side effects—the vivid night terrors of Grindelwald’s reign in his body. Percival wouldn’t admit that these things were problems because they just weren’t problems.  
  
They _weren’t_.  
  
So, Percival was a workaholic. So, what? There were worse addictions out there, and he was being productive, at least. The stress, for the most part, he could deal with. And when he struggled to hold it together, when his skin began to feel prickly and his vision began to dance with white pin pricks like fireflies and the throbbing behind his eyes started to spread down his neck; rather than going home to an empty apartment and even emptier coat closet, Percival would merely tell his team not to bother him and lock himself away in his office for hours.  
  
He had dealt with them all of his life, the headaches. “You’ll grow out of them. Usually young boys are cured when they hit puberty,” countless healers had informed him as he grew. Percival was 39 now.  
  
The migraines started back up almost immediately after returning to MACUSA. He couldn’t say that he was surprised. He had spent such long periods of time deprived of his senses when under Grindelwald’s control. It was almost a blessing in disguise: the eventual feeling of floating Percival reached between periods of interaction with the madman lead to very few headaches. That being said, the stress upon returning to the real world was almost entirely overwhelming and the extremely unbalanced work to sleep ratio was certainly taking its toll on his body. The migraines that followed were as horrendous as Percival remembers them being when he was young, curled up in his mother’s lap, not knowing why he was in so much pain, just wanting it to stop, stop, stop, _pleasemomjustmakeitstop_.  
  
But he had dealt with them all of his life and, brief remission or not, headaches were nothing Percival couldn’t handle. Graves if nothing else, was a strong man and projected exactly that for his team. What kind of leader would he be if he couldn’t handle a little bit of stress and pain every once in a while? His aurors faced both on a regular basis in the field, and they weren’t allowed to complain. It definitely wasn’t a pride thing, shut up, it wasn’t. He could _handle_ it.  
  
That is, of course, until he couldn’t.  
  
For the first time in nearly a week, Percival woke in his own bed. _Late for work._ Just yesterday, his team of aurors had wrapped up another case involving a ragtag group of Grindelwald supporters terrorizing the lower parts of New York. After a couple celebratory rounds of drinks, the team headed their separate ways for the night.  
  
Okay, perhaps a few more than a couple rounds—Percival’s head was throbbing and his tongue felt like sandpaper. And he had overslept. By a whole three hours. While rushing to get ready for work, Percival threw back two glasses of water and a mild potion to appease the pain and apparated to the Woolworth building. He was immediately thrown into a meeting with the other department heads and the Madame President.  
  
The headache was distracting. He had struggled to keep up with what everyone was saying at the meeting. Speeches and debates drifted in and out of focus for the entire hour and a half. As if Percival was in a tunnel and the voices were echoing all around him, bouncing off walls in all directions, sometimes sounding so close it was nearly deafening and other times so very muffled that he had to repeat the noises in his head until they formed sentences. The notes he had taken (he found, upon later review) were nothing more than a jumbled mess of half formed thoughts. He couldn’t even remember what he had said when it was his turn to speak.  
  
Auror Tina Goldstein stopped him on his way back to his office later. “Sir, are you alright? We were worried when you didn’t show up this morning; you’re never late.” Hand delicately placed on his arm, concern lacing her voice.  
  
Percival straightened up almost imperceptibly, clearing his throat as he did so. “Fine, Goldstein. Nothing I can’t handle,” he kept it short, suddenly not having the energy to talk. “I want your report from yesterday’s raid on my desk by the time you leave today. I’ll be in my office.” And pivoted on his heel, but not before he had confirmed Tina’s soft, “Yes, sir.”  
  
The throbbing behind his eyes was growing worse. He was sitting at his desk trying to catch up on all of the paper work that had piled up throughout the week when his vision began to darken around the edges and little white spots began to dance in front of him. Auras. Great, just what he needed to deal with when there was still so much work to do.  
  
In the bottom drawer of Percival’s desk were a series of potions he’d been prescribed for exactly these occasions—except. He’d gone through his reserves all week and the one time he had been home he’d been too drunk and then too late to work for him to even be concerned about his prescriptions. Damn.  
  
And it was only getting worse. The lights were near blinding now, halos streaking outward and stretching so far down he though the white rays would touch him, burn through his already itching skin. He dimmed them the best he could in his haze, but the very act of using magic without his wand had Percival nearly retching in violent nausea.  
  
No time to be sick. _Focus!_ There’s still so much to do.  
  
Paperwork, right.  
  
“…in conjunction with other local agencies…will conduct a series of interrogations without prejudice of job status…” the words were beginning to blur. Another wave of pain was accompanied by a hazy disk of light drifting across the left side of his vision. Start over. “In conjunction with—” his vision was swimming, knives were repeatedly sticking into his raw nerves. His ears started ringing.  
  
There was a soft knock on the door, so quiet Percival almost didn’t hear it over the buzzing in his head.  
  
“Enter,” he honestly wasn’t sure if he had even said it aloud until the door slowly opened to reveal the silhouette of New Scamander.  
  
“Er, so sorry to interrupt—I’m sure you’re very busy—it’s just—” the buzzing grew to a roaring in his ears, muffling whatever Scamander said next. The pain hit a new peak, sharp behind his eyes and throbbing down his neck and spine. The world tilted.  
  
Graves gasped at the pain.  
  
_“Shit!”_  
  
The last thought that crossed Graves mind was how amusing it was to hear Newt Scamander curse.  
  


**X~*~X**

  
  
When Percival next opened his eyes, his brain was foggy and his body felt like lead weight. He was still in pain, but it was not nearly as severe. In his half-asleep state, he tries to sit up to see where he was, but exhaustion was weighing him down and strong arms were suddenly wrapped around his shoulder and a smooth voice was speaking in his ear.  
  
“Hush, darling, lie back down and rest. You’re in no state to be moving around.”  
  
Whatever he was lying on was so soft and warm and the voice was so nice and _justlikemom_ and he was so very tired. He sighed, closing his eyes again, settling.  
  
Fingers were now carding through his hair and he almost moaned at the counter pressure the gentle tugging was providing for his retreating headache. “You’ll be perfectly fine in a tick, darling. Just rest for now. That’s it, I’ve got you,” the fingers assured him and then he was drifting off to sleep again.  
  


**X~*~X**

 

The second time, Percival was much more aware when he awoke. In an unfamiliar area. Entirely unfamiliar. _Where the hell was he?_  
  
Panic set in and nearly sent him over the edge of the narrow cot he was resting on, but strong hands were scooping him up and pushing down carefully on his shoulders. “Not again. No, no, settle down, darling. You’re still better off lying still,” a gentle but firm voice told him.  
  
In his panicked state, the voice almost sounded like his mother’s and he _almost_ called out for her, but he stopped himself with the word on the tip of her tongue. His mother passed away years ago.  
  
Percival looked up at the speaker and two things clicked in his mind: One being that for the first time he could remember, he was looking directly into Newt Scamander’s eyes and Scamander wasn’t breaking the contact; two being that this was the same Newt Scamander that had seen him blackout in his office earlier and it took all of his willpower to school the embarrassment he felt into a neutral expression.  
  
He tried to push the man’s hands off of him and sit up with a gruff, “’M just fine,” but Scamander, despite his looks, was stronger, and in his exhausted state, pushing the man off of him required a lot more energy than he was willing to spare.  
  
“Oh, absolutely not. I just watched you collapse less than two hours ago, and I am very sorry to inconvenience you, Mr. Graves, but you are most certainly not _just fine_.” Scamander sat back on the end of the cot and observed him like a scientist might one of his experiments.  
  
Percival found being subjected to the look for a long period of time to be unnerving, but wouldn’t dare let it show on his face. Instead, he stared back, unflinching, imagining the man across from him as someone Percival had brought in for questioning. Eventually, the stare off ended with Scamander’s eyes shifting to a spot just off from his left ear.  
  
“How long have you been suffering from migraines?”  
  
“How did you—?”  
  
“I’m a scientist, Mr. Graves. It’s my job to pay attention, especially if something is wrong,” Scamander smiled wryly.  
  
And Scamander was certainly observant if Percival was to believe half of the stories he had heard about Grindelwald’s reign in his body. Scamander had been the one to realize something was terribly _wrong_ with the man parading around with Percival’s face. He had also apparently been the one to realize where the real Graves had been hidden—not that Percival had been conscious at the time to verify that account.  
  
“…r. Graves,” Scamander’s voice startled him out of his thoughts.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
Scamander was now standing at a desk with his back turned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, grinding herbs up in a mortar and pestle. Something earthy and warm smelling was brewing next to him. “I asked if your head was still hurting,” came the soft response. He poured the brew into a mug and handed it to Percival. “Drink this, it’s a brew a fantastic healer taught me in India. And I know how you Americans are about your coffee—” Percival closes his mouth against his own argument—“but humor me, I find ginger tea helps to ease nausea and reduce headaches—especially stress headaches—both of which I’m sure you’re still feeling the after effects.”  
  
Graves was not a tea drinker. It was too floral and not nearly bitter enough for his tastes. But he would humor Scamander. He drained the mug, not realizing how thirsty he was until he had started in on the tea. He didn’t have much time to consider the flavor if he were completely honest.  
  
The effects were almost immediate. He could feel his veins lighting up with a clean feeling, like all of the stress and the sickening feelings had been flushed out of his system. He heaved a breathy sigh of relief.  
  
“Mr. Scamander—”  
  
“Just Newt, please. There’s really no need to be so formal,” a shy smile.  
  
“Just Newt, then. I should thank you. You’ve done more than I would ever ask anyone to do for me.”  
  
Newt was sitting on the edge of the cot again, eyes locked on something small and silver he was fumbling with in his hands. “You were hurting. No being should have to suffer for something they cannot help and that includes humans such as yourself, Mr. Graves.”  
  
Percival suppressed a flush and sucked in his pride. “I suppose I should apologize for that as well. I shouldn’t have overworked myself like I did. Sometimes it’s easy to forget I’m human when I work case after case and get in over my head. This was much needed reminder, I’m afraid.”  
  
“Perhaps, if you ever start to feel less human, you could come visit me and my creatures,” the request was quiet, almost inaudible as if Newt was nervous of the reaction Percival would have and had tried to retract the offer before it was too late.  
  
It was a shock for sure, to hear Newt willingly offering him entrance to his most secret place—a place, if Graves were to believe auror Goldstein, that contained many highly illegal objects and beasts. But if Newt was offering him invitation to visit more often, if Newt trusted him that much, then Percival would give him someone to trust in because Percival if nothing else was a man that wouldn’t go back on his word.  
  
“I think I’d like that, Newt,” and the statement gave him a brief moment of eye contact with those stunning green eyes that crinkled at the edges when Newt finally smiled broadly at him.  
  
“Wonderful! Oh, one more thing, Mr. Graves. A gift,” Newt reached slowly for one of Percival’s hands and pulled it closer to his, other hand spreading Percival’s loose fingers out to expose his palm to the air. He deposited a small charm into the center, eyes focused on the silver triangle. “I received this as a gift on one of my travels. Pyramid charms are said to promote good energy at work while warding of headaches and illness. I used to carry it around as a reminder of what overworking does to the spirit, but I think you’ll find more use in it now. Keep it with you, it’ll help.”  
  
An unnamed emotion swept over Graves, making his chest tight and eyes burn briefly, but he shook the feeling away with an awed, “Thank you.” He stared at the little charm a while longer before closing his fingers around it and squeezing.  
  
He felt the best he had in a long time. Perhaps being a workaholic had its perks. Percival smiled lightly at Newt. Perks indeed.  
  
Almost as an afterthought he added, “And, Newt? Just Percival, please. There’s really no need to be so formal.”

 

**X~*~X**

**Author's Note:**

> EDITED: 3/19/2017
> 
> God bless, I didn't realize how many tense shifts and typos were in this when I posted this. There are probably more problems with it, but I think I fixed most of the big ones. 
> 
> THANK YOU FOR ALL OF THE KUDOS AND COMMENTS YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING!!


End file.
